


love is a state of grace, transcending time and space

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bubble Bath, Date Night, F/F, Fem Gallavich, Fluff and Angst, Genderswap, Honeymoon, Jealousy, Jewelry, Miami, Post-Wedding, Swimming, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vacation, Wives, again......not to trigger anybody, as always, but - Freeform, how could i forget - Freeform, ian almost gets in a fist fight that's all i'm gonna say, just for mickey :(, somebody buys SOMEBODY a nice necklace that's all i'm gonna say, talks of kids, talks of starting a family, the beach!!!, together., well read to find out god, when isn't it these days?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23715760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ian finally knows why they call it a honeymoon.or, mickey and ian's honeymoon, featuring sunny miami, talks of ginger kids, and a whole lotta love
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 5
Kudos: 69





	love is a state of grace, transcending time and space

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this lovely anon](https://thelesbiancometh.tumblr.com/post/615859686392070144/could-you-write-fem-gallavichs-wedding-and) on tumblr who has been patiently waiting for me to finish writing this not-even-that-long piece of shit - thank you!! and to everybody that's been sending me nice anons: you are literally the reason why i'm motivated to write!! thank u!!! i don't know what to say!! really make my day when i get 'em 💞
> 
> i just. i Wish they were already women from the get go, yknow? i have to change so much stuff and as a result i cannot Connect with it as much as i'd like to, but if you enjoyed this make sure to let me know, and also drop a prompt if you have one over on my [tumblr](https://sapphicfiona.tumblr.com) if you'd like to see it butchered.
> 
> hope you enjoy this.

Ian finally knows why they call it a _honeymoon._

She had a brief idea. She had as much knowledge as an unmarried person _could_ have, anyway; she thought it was just another corny part of marital propaganda, the push of marital bliss to the crowd of the remaining unsuspecting single citizens in an attempt to promote and glorify the idea of a nuclear family to whomever didn’t know better – or whatever shit Mickey kept yapping about when they were high and merely dating, what seems like a long time ago. Frankly, it’s been just a few days since the wedding, but Ian has already forgotten what it’s like not to be able to call herself Mickey’s wife.

She’s no poet, but she suspects the _honey_ aspect of it has something to do with the way Mickey talks to her from time to time, when they’re all warm and tired and loose after a swim or just woken up in the morning, when her voice takes on this saccharine sweet and syrupy tone to it, the one reserved just for Ian. It’s either that, or the way Ian’s chest fills up with golden light whenever Mickey emerges from the beach, all drenched, her hair dripping down her back and her board shorts hanging low on her hips, adjusting her tits in her bikini top and walking up to her, smiling all the way, the sun hitting her back. And _moon_ – the shape of Mickey’s eyes before they go to bed, all round and bright and watching, so blue they might as well be silver – or, alternatively, the moonlight bouncing off her skin at night, when they’re in the hotel balcony and resting against the railing, silent and stargazing. Ian’s never looking at the sky.

Mickey hated the idea of Miami. Ian believes she hated everything it stands for – tan surfer dudes with greasy blond hair, rich old fucks hitting on girls half their age on the beach, the gym rats… It’s the reason she was so nervous to surprise her with the plane tickets in the first place – Lip and his connections – but it all ended up being okay. Unless Mickey’s a brilliant liar and has been hating their stay the entire week they’re here. Ian doesn’t need to rile herself up at this point.

She tips her head back on their beach towel, feeling her hair with one hand and leaning back on the other one, letting the sun bathe her in sunlight. Mickey had dived in for a swim a while ago, after making sure she had lathered every secret crevice of Ian’s body with enough sunblock to cover an army of buff men twice her size – _“I’m not exactly aching to cover your sunburns with yoghurt or some shit back at the hotel, Red.”_ – and Ian has started to miss her, as she tends to from the moment they got hitched, perusing the entirety of the ocean in the hopes to catch a glimpse of a certain little lady with a shaved side on her head. She does, eventually, spotting Mickey walking out of the water, squeezing her hair as if to dry it – she motions her over once she catches her eyes, and Mickey grins, obeying.

Ian takes a moment to liken watching Mickey walk over to watching her approach her at the altar, all shy smiles and a bouquet of forget-me-nots in her hand, a single earring sparkling alongside her teeth. If she tears up now, she’ll never hear the end of it.

“That’s it for you today?” Mickey says as soon as she’s within earshot, picking up another beach towel to wipe herself with. Ian raises an eyebrow, askance. “You don’t fancy another swim?”

“Oh,” Ian shields her eyes from the sun to look up at her. There’s droplets of water cascading down her neck and temples. “Maybe later. Enjoying the sun.”

“Enjoying the sun, eh?” Mickey tuts, sitting down next to her wife tiredly, narrowing her eyes at her – courtesy of the beaming sunlight. “Did you remember to put on more sunblock?”

Ian groans, tipping her head back even more. _“Yes._ Jesus.”

“Don’t _Jesus_ me,” says Mickey, struggling to dry her hair with the towel. “I’m scared to even take you out in this fucking place, Red. At least _my_ pasty ass doesn’t burn.”

“Don’t know how I’m supposed to act if you get all tan,” Ian jokes, stealing the towel from Mickey’s loose hands in favor of wrapping it around her shoulders, drying her up herself. “Gonna look like a whole different person.” She leans in closer to mumble in her ear: “Did I ever tell you I’m _super_ into Miami girls?”

Mickey exhales a laugh through her nose, letting Ian part her hair to the side and kiss down her neck. “You mean blonde, tan, big tits, etcetera?” She tuts when Ian hums into her skin. “You’re so _boring.”_

Nobody’s even paying them any mind, and that’s the beauty of it, Ian thinks. Back in Chicago, they couldn’t even hold hands without _somebody_ giving them the stink eye, or _somebody_ (usually a man who was interested in a threesome) asking if they’re sisters with a knowing little look. It’s refreshing, to be so unimportant.

Mickey embraces the arms that wrap around her, and the chin hooked over her shoulder. “Think we can have a drink or two?” she says, turning around to glance back at her. Ian unhooks her chin from her shoulder to accommodate her. “Thirsty as a motherfucker.”

Ian smiles and leaves a peck on her nose, then on her lips, tasting the sea salt on her mouth. “When you dry, maybe,” she says, and rolls her eyes when Mickey raises her eyebrows. “Because I know you’ll wanna sit on me and I don’t wanna get all wet again.”

“I don’t wanna sit on you–” _lie,_ “–and you’re _getting_ yourself wet right now.” She pauses to snort at her own words, sticking her tongue out playfully. “Ha. _Wet.”_

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Ian mumbles, even through her smile. She huffs as Mickey decides to shake her arms off from around her waist, turning herself around so that she’s kneeling on their beach towel, between Ian’s legs. 

“I really want a drink,” she pouts, hands resting on Ian’s thighs. She’s wearing the bottom half of the bikini top Mickey’s put on, the top the stolen half of one of Fiona’s old bikinis she doesn’t even know she owns anymore. It was a mistake, really, because Mickey seems to be obsessed with them, studying and touching them even when they’re in broad fucking daylight – much like she’s doing right now. “Are you this fucking lazy? Not even gonna get your _wife_ a goddamn drink?”

“You’ve played the wife card pretty much our entire stay here,” Ian points out as a matter of fact, slapping Mickey’s hand away as one finger sneaks under the side of her bikini bottom. “Can you not try to finger me on the fucking beach? I saw a toddler sleeping, like, right _there.”_

Mickey smiles, lips dripping with honey. “You’re fun to touch,” she says, mirth in her tone and her eyes and her everything, saying it like it’s their dirty little secret. “If I wasn’t this goddamn _thirsty_ I’d probably drag you into one of those shower stalls over there.”

“Oh, you mean the ones where there are literal children playing tennis, like, a foot away?” she hisses, and Mickey sighs, still massaging her thighs. “This morning not enough for you?”

“It’s my _honeymoon!”_ Mickey exclaims, all incredulous. “When’s the best time to appreciate how hot my wife is if not now? When the kids come?” she shakes her head. “I’ll have other stuff to worry about.”

“Again with the fuckin’ kids– I thought I told you to slow down.”

Mickey gives her one of those sweet smiles again, the ones she thinks will get her anything she asks for – and as she leans in, Ian thinks that they might as well. “Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll change your mind.”

This is the only thing she could do without. It’s not that Ian doesn’t _want_ kids – Ian _loves_ kids, and she loves the idea of raising kids with _Mickey,_ having her be all cute and sweet with a child of their own, having a little nuisance running around, causing trouble. Both she and Mickey are used to big families, and so the both of them were pretty sure about the route they wanted this marriage to take. Ian knows this – but she doesn’t know exactly how willing she is to risk it.

Mickey’s pretty much obsessed with having a mini Ian. A miniature of her wife running around, calling her Mommy, asking for kisses – Mickey’s always fantasized about it, and always made sure to let Ian know she fantasized about it, and always tried to pretty much brainwash Ian into being the one to carry their first baby. It’s the goddamn appeal of the red hair – always being the root of Ian’s problems one way or another.

And it’s not that Ian doesn’t _want_ the attention that will come with being pregnant. It’s not that at all – she just doesn’t want to risk passing down her fucked up genes.

Mickey doesn’t care, but then again, Mickey doesn’t _get_ it. She doesn’t get how it will feel to bear the guilt of being the reason your child has to suffer, of having to look at the kid in the eyes every day in spite of you being the reason behind it all. Ian’s tried to convince Mickey that having to look after at least two people with bipolar at the same time will be an absolute nightmare – but one of the things Ian has loved about her is that she’s a stubborn prick, and that has, a lot of times, come back to bite her in the ass.

For now, she shakes her head in faux amusement, hugging Mickey in by the neck and letting her bury her nose into Ian’s own neck, touching her lips against the top of Mickey’s head. “I swear you’re a fuckin’ sadist,” she murmurs, kissing her hair as Mickey laughs, all muffled and low. “How can you look your redheaded kid in the eyes and say, _‘I wanted that for you.’”_

“Fuck _off,”_ Mickey says, her smile practically audible. “I’m a sucker for a ginger and you know it. Only reason why I tolerate your freckled ass.”

“Oh, God, what if the kid has freckles?” Ian groans, letting go of Mickey to bury her face in her hands. Mickey’s still laughing, trying to pry her fingers away. _“Please_ don’t make me do this.”

“I’m not _makin’_ you do shit,” Mickey says, prying her hands away and holding them close to her chest by the wrists. “You have to want it. Or I just fuck a random redheaded surfer and get my own kid,” she shrugs in faux casualty, smiling as Ian’s eyes shoot laserbeams. “Lady’s choice.”

“I’d be more threatened if you could stand being around men.”

Mickey holds her eyes in challenge for all about two seconds. “Touché,” she sighs, shifting on her knees. _“God,_ Ian, can you go get me that fuckin’ drink? How hard is it to do your darling wife a favor for once? We’re fuckin’ newlyweds if that even _means_ something to your g–”

“Alright, alright, _alright!”_ Ian exclaims, softly shoving Mickey away when her signature triumphant smile makes an appearance. “Jesus, if it’ll get you to finally stop _nagging_ me…” she stands up, pulling her hair up to tie it into a ponytail, looking down at Mickey with a scowl. “You are the walking stereotype of the nagging wife, you know that?”

Mickey sticks her tongue out, absently sliding a hair-tie off her wrist and offering it up to her. Ian takes it huffily. “Get me one of them fancy shits– Get me a margarita,” she says, beaming up mischievously. “Meet you at the bar, Passion Pit.”

“Oh, she thinks I’m going to the fuckin’ bar…” Ian murmurs to herself as she shoves the extra towel in their beach bag, at which Mickey falls down onto her back on top of the beach towel and groans. “Nah. ‘M going back to the hotel room to get my shit and I’m dumpin’ your pasty ass.”

“Hate to see you leave, but love to watch you go!” Mickey yells after her, and she manages to flip her off over her shoulder as Mickey starts to whistle at her retreating back. There’s no mistaking the little smile that tugs on the sides of her mouth, though, and she starts to fidget with her wallet, leaning against the bar and flagging down the bikini-clad bartender. “Two margaritas, please,” she tells her, getting a nod and a smile back.

Ian sits down onto a stool, her chin on her closed fist, and she keeps smiling to herself for the whole minute she’s managed to be left alone, curly strands of red hair falling into her face. She briefly thinks that Mickey’s gonna brush them back behind her ear once she gets here, so she lets them linger on her cheeks.

Somebody’s blocking her sun, so she’s forced to cut her Mickey-filled thoughts short and look up at whoever it is – to her dismay making eye contact with a tan, buff dude, coolly leaning against the countertop next to her. Mickey would call him a fucking do-nothing gym rat. She refrains from smiling again.

“Hey, Sugar,” the guy begins, and Ian tries not to turn back around. _Too_ rude, she thinks. Still, the sour look keeps creeping onto her face without her control. “Was that too forward?” he laughs, and Ian supposes the look was a bit more sour than what she was hoping for. Good. “I was just standin’ over there and thought you could use some company.”

“You thought wrong,” Ian deadpans, smiling at the bartender as she approaches her with her order and tells her what she owes. Before she can think about pulling out the bills, a gruff voice stops her.

“It’s on me,” he tells the bartender, who raises her eyebrows in question. Ian scoffs.

“Nah, it ain’t,” she winks at the lady, appreciating the small laugh bubbling out of her, and props her chin back on her fist after she pays and the lady goes back to doing her job. The guy’s laughing lowly – something about it gives Ian gooseflesh, and not the good kind.

“D’aw, come on, sweetie,” he shakes his head, leaning a tiny bit closer. Too close. “Where’s the love? Was just trying to be nice, ‘s all.”

“Really? ‘Cause it sounded like you were trying to get in my pants.”

He shrugs, sloshing his own drink around. Ian can’t even bother to guess what it is. “I’ll take what I can get,” he grins again, and Ian refrains from telling him he’s getting a kick in the nuts at most. “So, uh, tell me. What’s a pretty girl like you’s name?”

“Lay off, dude. I’m married.”

“What kinda no-good husband leaves a gorgeous girl like you alone?” he presses, and if he carries on, Ian thinks she’s gonna snap. She’s surprised her glass has no cracks in it with how hard she’s gripping it. It’s either that or Johnny Bravo’s neck. “Come on… Would it be better if I told you _my_ name?” he beams again, but Ian isn’t even looking. “I’m Chris.”

“And I’m Mickey,” Ian hears behind her back, and almost spills her drink as she turns around to gauge Mickey’s stance. Pissed, very pissed. “We havin’ a get-together or what?” she says, false smile all plastered on her face, hand curling around Ian’s waist and resting on her thigh to calm her. “What? I ain’t invited?”

“Of course you’re invited, sweetheart,” Chris smiles, giving Mickey the old once-over. Ian instinctively gets off her stool and squares her shoulders as Chris settles on Mickey’s bikini top, then on her _actual_ eyes. “The more the merrier.”

“Who you callin’ sweetheart?” Ian says, taking a threatening step forward, at which Chris does a double-take.

“Hey…” Mickey mumbles, warm hand instantly on her shoulder, but she immediately regains her stone cold exterior. “Listen here, Jack. I’m gonna need you to get your ass away from us if you know what’s good for you,” she glances down at the guy’s flashpoint, much to Ian’s amusement. “And your balls. Got it?”

Chris pauses for a beat, looking stunned as all hell. “Was just trying to be polite, I mean– If her husband’s got an issue with it, I’ll respect that.”

“You’re _lookin’_ at her husband, hotshot,” Mickey deadpans, and the color rushes to Chris’ face. Not from embarrassment or nothing, though – _apparently._

“I see… You two ever been in a threesome, sweetcheeks?” he tries, sentiment directed to Mickey with his eyes all open and inviting, and that’s all it takes for Ian to take another step forward and grab him by the front of his ridiculous muscle tee, nose all squished into his.

 _“Beat_ it, shitdick,” she spits, and he looks the epitome of spooked. “And watch your mouth around my wife, got it?” She waits. _“Got it?”_

He nods jerkily, eyes never leaving hers.

“Now apologize,” she continues, at which he just fish-mouths. She bunches up the front of his shirt tighter, “Tell her you’re fuckin’ _sorry,_ dickbreath!”

He stutters as she throws him away by his shirt, muttering his apologies to Mickey before he scurries away, drink forgotten on the bar. The other occupants of the bar look at them for barely two seconds longer, soon going back to their drinks – obviously used to such scraps in sunny Miami. The bartender gives her a mere apologetic smile as she pushes the hair back out of her face and regards Mickey, whose face looks all amused as she steals Ian’s seat, sipping her untouched margarita.

Ian doesn’t smile back. _“What?”_

“Did I speak?” Mickey says, but her smile widens. Ian tries not to grin as she slumps against the bar. “And you’re pissed at me for _what_ exactly?”

“Not _pissed_ at you,” Ian mumbles.

Mickey watches her for a second. She plays with the lime on her glass, “Should pay someone to rile you up more often. _Super_ hot.”

“Fucking hell, Mickey… Read the fucking _room.”_

“Watch your fuckin’ tone with me,” Mickey warns, and Ian slumps even further. “As if it’s my fault guys dig you. Do you know how many sleazeballs have hit on me and/or groped me since we got here? Do you _see_ me taking it out on you?”

“What?” Ian straightens up to stare at her, but Mickey only waves a dismissive hand at her as she sips her drink. “And when were you gonna tell me about this? Who were they?”

“Fuck should I know,” Mickey shrugs, her nonchalance as she sucks on her lime riling Ian up even further. “Some pervs in the lobby. Guy in the ocean earlier,” she nods towards the beach.

“God, you need to _tell_ me these things, Mick.”

 _“Sorry_ for not wanting you to start getting into fist fights in our goddamn honeymoon!” Mickey huffs, finally looking at her. “Jesus, why is it even important? I’m kinda married already. Can’t really drop everything to run off with some surfer dude,” she says. “Who has a _dick.”_

Ian drags both hands down her face, headache teasing up behind her eyelids. “Sorry…” she mumbles, feeling a hand trail up her back as she rests her elbows on the bartop. “I just– I want you to have fun,” she moves her hands for emphasis, palms up.

Mickey snorts. “I _am_ havin’ fun. Don’t worry about it,” she leans in so that her lips are closer to Ian’s ear, leaving a little kiss on her earlobe. “I’m in fuckin’ _Miami_ with my fuckin’ _wife,_ for God’s sake. My hot fuckin’ wife who defends my honor in front of creeps.”

Ian laughs into her fist, biting down on it bashfully as Mickey unties her ponytail and lets her hair loose, sliding it over one shoulder so she can nuzzle her nose into the side of Ian’s neck. She’s sure she smells of sea salt and sunblock, but Mickey can’t seem to get enough of it.

“Kids stopped playing tennis,” she gestures towards the shower stalls, and Ian laughs under her breath as she takes her first sip from her own margarita. “Hm? What do you say?”

She takes a moment to mull it over, more for show than anything. “Let me finish my drink first,” she mumbles, twisting her head so that their noses bump together, giving Mickey a sweet kiss that’s more smiles than anything else. “Nagged the hell out of me for it and you’re not even gonna drink it?”

Mickey only huffs, but she keeps her face buried in that spot in Ian’s neck, her arm curled around her waist.

* * *

Mickey hates fancy outings.

It’s something Ian’s always known about her, something she’s learned to love about her – like everything about Mickey, if she’s honest with herself, traditionally lovable or not. Ian knows she can’t stand the pretense of caring enough to dress up, or getting all dolled up or what have you – or, more correctly, she knows Mickey’s never had anyone who appreciated her getting all dolled up, somebody to tell her how beautiful she is. However, she also knows she can count every single date they have been on on one hand, and that she’s not about to _not_ take advantage of the beautiful Miami night scene and show Mickey off until she inevitably gets yelled at.

So, here Mickey is, in a rental, long, slip-on dress, black and comfortable and all she would wear, but Ian’s not complaining. She looks absolutely radiant, ravishing, everything Ian can think of, really – and the shaved detail in her hair gives it that edge of Mickey, that roughness Ian fell in love with. She barely has time to get ready herself, what with staring the whole time they had to get themselves to look presentable, rushing into her own dress, pure white like her wedding suit had been. She only had to deal with _one_ joke about them looking like salt and pepper shakers from Mickey, so she figured that was as good of a start to the night she was gonna get.

And Ian’s nervous. She hasn’t been nervous about Mickey in _years._

It’s not only because of the date. Sure, she wants it to go well, she wants Mickey to have fun and be swept off her feet and everything she deserves – but it has more to do with a certain something she had picked up at noon, when Mickey had been so tired from their morning swim that she had opted to take a nap instead of have sex, like Ian was hoping. Ian tried to curl up behind her and sleep, but she had been restless, and the day was too nice not to take advantage of – so she took to exploring the streets around their hotel room, stumbling into a jewelry shop a few blocks down. Her eyes immediately had caught a bright necklace through the glass, and that was that.

The box weighs heavy in her lap. Mickey hasn’t noticed it yet – she can’t look further than her own nose, and Ian always pokes fun at that, but she’s grateful for it coming in handy. She takes a deep breath and approaches her wife as she stands before the mirror, making a half-assed attempt at putting on some of the red lipstick Ian had let her borrow from her bag, narrowing her eyes at her through the mirror. Ian’s hands are tight behind her back.

“Don’t look at me,” Mickey grouses, smudging the red around her lips. Ian can’t stop staring. “I’m doing this for _you,_ you hear me? God…” she tuts as some of it smudges on her cupid’s bow, and she wipes it off with her pinky. “You owe me _big_ for this.”

Silently, Ian places her free hand on Mickey’s hip and watches as her wife pauses to look at her through the mirror, turning around once the expression on Ian’s face registers. They’re face to face, and Ian smiles when Mickey does, stroking her cheekbone with her thumb. She hasn’t been this stunned in Mickey’s presence ever since the wedding, when it was a few minutes ‘til showtime and they had broken the rules and seen each other, Ian seeing her for the first time in her wedding dress, her striking, gorgeous, lovely self. Her _bride._

“Alright there, Freckles?” Mickey mumbles, nudging her nose against her wife’s. “What are you thinking about?”

“Same thing I’ve been thinking about ever since I was fifteen,” she replies, smiling as Mickey’s nose dusts pink, despite her scoff. The feel of the velvet of the box against her fingers reminds her, and she adjusts her grip on it behind her back. “Oh, you, uh– You got something in your hair, baby.”

Mickey hums against her cheek, her eyes flying open once she truly hears what Ian said – she jerks back, eyebrows high in her forehead. “What? Is it a bug?” she blurts, and Ian merely nods. _“Shit!”_ she shrieks, slapping her hair. “I can’t _stand_ that fucking shit! Take that shit off!” she glares at Ian. “Fuckin’ _move,_ Ian, _do_ somethin’!”

“Fucking– Hold still, then!” Ian exclaims, amused edge in her voice. Mickey obeys, freezing up with her eyes all wide – Ian would feel bad, but it’s not _near_ often enough that she sees Mickey being a pussy like this.

“Get it _off,_ Ian, for _fuck’s_ sake! Are you waiting for it to bite me or what!”

“Shut up! _Jesus,”_ Ian laughs, managing to slide the box behind Mickey’s back without her noticing – too busy glaring and whimpering and _God,_ Ian’s too in love for words. She pretends to reach up into Mickey’s hair to get the bug off with her sitting deathly still, and she pops a huge smile as she reveals the box in front of Mickey’s eyes, who goes cross-eyed with confusion. 

A pregnant pause.

“You’re the biggest fuckin’ bitch on the planet,” Mickey deadpans, and Ian finally allows herself to laugh as she shakes the box tauntingly. “God– That’s _it?”_ she shrieks, dragging her hands down her face as if to calm herself down.

“What do you mean _that’s it?_ You haven’t even opened it yet,” Ian jokes, nudging it into Mickey’s stomach with a shit-eating grin.

Mickey glares at her through her fingers. “You know what I meant,” she grouses, harshly ripping the box out of Ian’s hold, rolling her eyes at her excitement. “God, it’s about time people started saying I married you ‘cause I’m a Ukrainian gold-digger, huh? That what you want?”

“That’s _exactly_ what I want, yeah,” Ian bites the inside of her cheek, every single passing second that the box remains closed killing her. “Well, open it, shithead!”

Mickey allows herself a little smile accompanied with narrowed eyes, and she takes a deep breath before she opens the box – her whole face lighting up in time for the necklace to sparkle in the light of the hotel room. The design is simple – silver with a single detail, the tiny green rock that Ian imagines just barely dipping into Mickey’s bust, so simple and so Mickey. _Perfect._

Mickey just stares at it, and if Ian didn’t know better she’d think she didn’t like it – but the little wobble of her lip and pinch of her eyebrows is unmistakable. Another thing Ian loves about Mickey is how expressive her face is, leaving no room for misunderstandings or miscommunications.

“Ian–” Mickey begins, being cut off by the stuffiness of her own voice.

Ian chuckles, slowly pivoting her so that she’s facing the mirror again – not that Mickey notices, too busy with watching the necklace, as if taking her eyes off it would mean it would disappear forever. Ian reaches over slowly and unclasps it from the box, letting Mickey drop her hands to her sides and allow Ian to wrap it around her neck, eyes magnetized to look at the movements of Ian’s hands through the mirror. The stone, as Ian imagined, hangs just above the swell of Mickey’s bust in her dress, the green shining off her skin and complementing the darkness of her hair, the red of her lips, and Ian can’t possibly _think_ to look away.

“It’s the same color as your eyes,” Mickey says, laughing through teary eyes, and her hand comes up to stroke the stone between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes meet Ian’s through the mirror. “I love it.”

A sigh of relief escapes Ian’s mouth, and Mickey scoffs, turning around so that they’re face to face again. She traps Ian’s face between her hands, her touch feather soft and warm, and Ian is home.

“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t like it?” Mickey smiles at her, unable to help it. “Hm?”

“Might have.”

“Like, realistically speaking,” Mickey begins, and Ian is already laughing, “do you think I’m ever not gonna love anything you give me?” She presses two fingers over Ian’s mouth when she tries to speak, making her laugh harder. “No, _think_ about it if you have to.”

Ian doesn’t have to. “You’re beautiful.”

Mickey tilts her head to the side, slapping Ian’s cheek in that way she does, and she kisses her, carding her fingers through her ginger curls and laughing as Ian hoists her up and forces her to wrap her legs around her thighs.

The restaurant Ian has chosen makes Mickey groan as soon as they step foot inside, and the fact that Ian chooses a table for two by the beach doesn’t help her case. It’s so she can see the moonlight reflect off of Mickey’s necklace, off her skin, off her eyes – to be able to nudge Mickey’s hand and force her to look up at the stars, whether she wants to or not.

(She does. But not without some pestering.)

Ian ends up spending most of the night with her chin propped on her fist, watching with fond eyes as Mickey digs into her food, glancing up at her once and again to give her a questioning glance.

“Can you stop lookin’ at me like I hung the moon?” she says around a mouthful of steak, and Ian clears her throat as she snaps out of it, looking down at her own plate bashfully. “Kinda hard to gorge when the person you’re fuckin’ is staring at ya,” she smiles, raising her eyebrows over the rim of her wine glass.

“Like I won’t have the hots for you if you choose to drown yourself in spaghetti sauce,” Ian mumbles into her own glance, at which Mickey shrugs as she focuses on cutting another piece of her steak.

“Might shave my head,” Mickey challenges once she has swallowed her bite, and Ian freezes with her fork an inch in front of her mouth. Mickey chuckles through her nose. “What’s wrong, Freckles? Cat got your tongue?”

Ian forces herself to put the fork into her mouth, chewing in faux nonchalance. “I mean– Not that I wouldn’t miss playing with it or nothin’...” she clears her throat, sloshing the wine around in her glass as she stares Mickey down over it, narrowing her eyes at Mickey’s taunting nods. “But, go for it, baby. Would be hot.”

Mickey hums with her eyebrows raised, and she props her chin on her fist to look at the waves a few metres away, smiling to herself. “I must admit, Red… This is nice,” she says, and Ian grabs her hand in the middle of the table as she turns to look at the water herself. “You Gallaghers might know a thing or two about romance after all.”

Ian doesn’t say anything, just squeezes Mickey’s hand and appreciates the light breeze, watching as it brushes Mickey’s hair off her shoulder and down her back, her collarbones and arms exposed, all pale and shiny. 

“I remember–” Ian starts, and Mickey’s attention is focused on her in a heartbeat, smiling brightly in anticipation as Ian’s own laughter cuts her off mid-sentence. “I remember practicing askin’ you out in front of the mirror.” She laughs, twisting around the wedding band in Mickey’s ring finger with her thumb. “Lip thought I was losing my fuckin’ mind.”

Mickey props her head on her fist to watch her, side of her mouth quirking up. “That doesn’t surprise me. Fuckin’ sap, you are.”

“Was so fucking nervous,” Ian continues, bringing Mickey’s hand up to her mouth and kissing her knuckles, the crude tattoos making her smile against her skin, not breaking eye contact with her grinning wife. “Thought you were gonna sock me in the mouth.”

Mickey gives a breathy chuckle through her nose. “I did.”

“You didn’t,” Ian waves her off. “It was more like a little shove.”

“Which made you trip and fall on your face and split your lip.”

“Eh,” she shrugs. “Got amazing head out of it, though.”

“Felt bad,” Mickey says, letting go of Ian’s hand to dig back into her food.

When they order dessert, Ian lets Mickey steal little spoonfuls of hers – she listens to her talk about whatever the fuck Mickey Milkovich tends to talk about, twisting her wedding band around her ring finger.

* * *

Mickey brings it up again when they’re in the bath, the window open over their heads and letting the breeze inside, water all fresh and cool against their skins.

Ian is lying with her back against the tile, and Mickey’s leaning against her chest, laid out between her legs like she was born to lie there, with Ian’s arms weaved under her armpits and locked around her abdomen, Mickey’s hands cradling her own on her stomach. She tips her head back to fit into the crevice of Ian’s neck, and Ian glances down at her in question.

“Think I want a bath in our home,” she hums, and Ian smiles against her temple. “Shower, too, but… Think a bath would be nice, you know?” A pause. “Might be useful if a baby comes along.”

Ian visibly seizes up, although she tries to cover it up as stretching. She hums, kissing Mickey’s temple lightly.

“Thought about it, yet?” Mickey prods, staring ahead at the tile of the walls. She strokes her fingers over the sides of Ian’s locked wrists. “Maybe carrying our first one?”

Ian sighs, her breath making the wet hair on Mickey’s temple flutter. “I don’t know…” she mumbles, gnawing on her bottom lip.

“You don’t know if you’ve thought about it?”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

She was louder this time. Mickey is silent, leaning back further into Ian’s body.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she asks, quieter than before. “God, have you ever thought about it? Havin’ a baby… A girl? With curly red hair and green eyes?” Ian can’t see her, but she can hear her smile. “Might love her more than you, just so you know. Would braid her hair… Dump a bunch of sunblock on her every time I take her out…” she laughs. “Might look just like Franny. Hm?”

Ian doesn’t reply. She’s thinking about it, the images playing in her head as Mickey recites them – Mickey with a little redheaded baby, cuddling her and cooing at her, cradling her in her chest and proudly showing her off to anyone who merely looks at her. Mickey with a little redheaded, freckled toddler, playing and running and singing– And then Ian thinks of the kid as a teenager, thinks of her having to gorge on meds just to be considered a normal person, has to think of her having to suffer through depression and mania and–

She bites down onto her tongue.

“I know you want a boy,” Mickey continues, blissfully unaware of Ian going insane. “You want him all pale and shit. With black hair and blue eyes– Like a mini me,” she shakes her head. “I just think… We might not be up for a second one after, you know? Who knows,” she shrugs. “But I definitely want a little ginger baby running around.”

“Mickey…” Ian mumbles, tired and hurt and quiet into Mickey’s temple.

Mickey stays silent for a moment. “I love you,” she says. “And I’ll love her. Them. Whatever God fuckin’ blesses us with.”

“It’s easy to think so now,” Ian tries. Mickey’s back tenses up.

“If you’re saying there’s any fuckin’ way I won’t love our kid, Gallagher–”

“I’m not saying that!” Ian is quick to elaborate, pulling her wife further into her chest. As long as she lets her. “I know you’ll love our kid, baby. I know that. You think I don’t think about that?” A small kiss on Mickey’s shoulder. “All the time.”

“Then what the hell’s the problem?”

 _“I’m_ the fuckin’ problem!” Ian blurts, tipping her head back and groaning when Mickey turns around to stare at her. “Don’t you fuckin’ _get_ it? I can’t do this to our baby, Mick. It’s not the kid’s fault.”

“Do _what,_ for fuck’s sake?”

“Pass down my fucked up genes! Quit playing dumb!” she retorts. “I don’t want there to be a day when our baby looks at me and– and that’s all they see. Fuckin’ Mom who was too selfish not to keep that shit to herself.”

Mickey is quiet.

“I don’t wanna–” she scoffs, continuing to talk because she needs to fill up the silence, needs to get her point across. “I don’t wanna have to see our kid have to do all this. Take all those meds. Bipolar’s not a fuckin’ joke, Mickey,” she says, and feels Mickey’s grip on her wrists go lax.

“You think I don’t know that?” Mickey says, and Ian’s eyes close on their own accord as she sighs. “What, you think you’re the only one affected by this?”

“Mick–”

“Who do you think puts the pills on your nightstand every morning?” she continues, undeterred. “Who do you think has to see you be all manic and shit, knowing it won’t last? Knowing it’s not really you, that you probably won’t even remember it the next day?” she’s getting choked up now, and Ian can tell she’s trying to push it down. “When you’re depressed and you won’t even fucking look at me? And when you do, it’s like you don’t remember me! Like I’m a fuckin’ _stranger_ to you!”

Ian sniffs, her arms impossibly tight around her tense wife. “I’m sorry…”

“No– I’m not saying it for you to be fuckin’ sorry! You don’t control that shit,” Mickey looks at her. Her eyes are glazed over. “I’m trying to make you understand you’re not the only one who has to deal with this. I _know._ Alright? And I love you! I _do!”_ She watches as Ian’s lip trembles, rubbing her own lip with her thumb. “I just– I wanna love our child like that.”

Ian manages a trembling smile, wet and real. “You want our kid to feel like I feel when I’m with you.”

“Whichever way you wanna fucking put it,” Mickey says, turning back to the front, back glued to Ian’s chest, feeling her labored breathing. “Bipolar or not… Kid’s still gonna be both of ours, ain’t it?”

Ian cries, and Mickey holds her – and Ian’s never been so sure of anything else in her life.

* * *

Ian looks up as the door clicks shut, and looks back down with an amused smile when she spots Mickey’s scowl.

“How was your walk?” she calls, smiling to herself as she hears the tell-tale thwack of Mickey kicking off her shoes and the heavy thumping of her stomping her way over to the bed. Ian’s lying on the clean sheets, in her boxers and everything, reading a book perched on her lap, pretending she hasn’t been having one eye on the door for Mickey’s arrival as soon as she left.

“Lonely,” Mickey grumbles, all grumpy, and she snakes her way under Ian’s arms to situate herself between her legs, back against her chest as she scans through the page Ian’s been on for the past hour. “Can’t _believe_ I spent a chunk of my last day of my honeymoon in Miami _alone.”_

“Are you– You _told_ me not to come with you!” Ian exclaims, at which Mickey swats her on the thigh.

“You’re _married_ and you still don’t understand women say the opposite of what they mean?” Mickey snorts. Ian hopes to God she’s fucking joking. “Whatcha readin’?”

“Fuck if I know,” she sniffs. “Was waiting on you.”

Mickey hums, eyes skimming over the pages. Ian laughs into her shoulder, biting and kissing it, eyes glazed over as she thinks about the last couple of weeks. She briefly considers moving Mickey to Miami, raising a family of fuckin’ surfers and hippies and what not, never having to part with the image of her wife walking out of the beach – all soaked and smiley and in slow motion.

“Something about a Therese and an Abby and what the fuck ever,” Mickey sighs, snuggling further into Ian’s chest, feeling the vibrations of her laughter. “His wife probably doesn’t like her. _Boo_ fuckin’ _hoo.”_

“It’s two women.”

Mickey frowns, and she stays silent for a moment before speaking up. “Is this fucking _Carol?”_

Ian laughs and closes the book – confirming that it is, in fact, _Carol_ – and allows Mickey to tease her about it for just a second before she tightens her hold around her wife and buries her nose in the top of her head, eyes watching the beach – the waves hitting the shore through the window, the abandoned surfboards in the sand. Mickey strokes a finger down Ian’s forearm.

“Felt like this as I was walking down the aisle,” she says, referring to the steady rhythm of the waves. “All calm and quiet. As quiet as it could be with the sappy shit you chose to play.”

 _“I_ was fuckin’ nervous,” Ian snorts, spoken like a secret in Mickey’s hair. “And damn right it was sappy. I’m not allowed to be a sap in my own wedding?”

“Would be good if it was _just_ your wedding,” Mickey fires back. Ian sighs and noses at the shaved side of her head. “And we saw each other before it.”

Ian shrugs. “So?”

 _“So?_ It’s supposed to be bad luck.”

“We haven’t ripped each other’s heads off for the two weeks we’ve been here,” Ian retorts, and Mickey nods thoughtfully. “I consider that the _best_ luck.”

Mickey ends up falling asleep on her chest, and Ian thinks about how much she’ll chew her off about having a stiff neck the next morning – how the best of luck happens to be because of what she’s holding, of how much she loves and is loved and all that sappy shit Mickey would sock her in the eye for.

Yeah. _Honeymoon_ is about right.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for checking this out! all feedback is welcome


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